


the pull of you

by scramjets



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:22:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22324750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scramjets/pseuds/scramjets
Summary: All roads lead back to Jaskier, destiny or not.Post S1 AU
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 406





	the pull of you

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I'm still not over episode 6.
> 
> As always, big thank you to Shannon, for holding my hand through writing this fic. All mistakes are mine.

+

After he’d united with Cirilla, and after the smoke had cleared somewhat from the distant Sodden Hill, Geralt thought to himself, _Now what_. Now what, because while he knew to the bone that he had to protect this girl, his Child Surprise, but beyond protecting her, Geralt was lost. The child, Cirilla, looked equally as lost, sitting across from him with a broad, rough wooden table set between them. She was smaller than Geralt had imagined her to be, with pale, slight features, and a disinclination to talk. He’d imagined her to be like her grandmother, sharp and cunning, expansive and passionate-- but there was none of that in her.

The farmer’s wife looked at him with uncertainty and clear distrust that eased a little when her husband told her about Geralt’s saving his life. But then she looked at Cirilla, who sat picking at her plate while sneaking glances to him, and the uncertainty and distrust disappeared, and in its place was a longing that had Geralt tense. He was glad when they finally left, and relieved that the farmer and his wife hadn’t put up much of a fuss. 

But the question of _Now what_ remained. 

Walking away from the battle made the most sense. Sodden Hill stood as a warning in the distance and word had already made its way back about what had taken place there. A great fire. A woman. The Continent was vast enough that two people could disappear, but when those two people were a Witcher and the Lion Cub of Cintra, things became complicated. But for now he had coin and he knew where and what to avoid, and that was a better start than Geralt could have hoped for. So he walked, trusting his instinct to lead him.

+

Instinct had him follow a trail of talk and whispers to a tavern. Geralt hadn’t looked necessarily, didn’t upturn any rocks for hints or clues, yet the directions seemed to be handed to him. Go here, and here, and here, until he stood outside an establishment in the fringes of an abandoned town.

The public house looked like it had been salvaged from a farmstead. Its face was charred, and here and there were new planks of wood, hammered in to seal up holes and prop up the walls. From inside came the rowdy sound of drunk people, cheering and jeering, and over all that came the occasional pluck of lute strings, sharp and trill, and so very familiar. Roach, with Cirilla on his back, shifted, then exhaled, his warm breath fogging in the night air.

“I know,” Geralt said, not thinking, and he felt Cirilla peer down at him, maybe roused from her half sleep by the sound of his voice. 

How long had it been? One year? Two years? Ten? Geralt was uncertain. It was difficult to track the days when time didn’t pass in any conventional sense. He was most alive when killing monsters, hands wet with warm blood and magic running hot and powerful through his veins. But after that, in the long empty trough between jobs, travelling on foot with his miserly thoughts for company, time felt like it didn’t pass at all, come to a standstill and leaving him the only man in existence.

Finally Geralt sighed and coaxed Roach towards the bar, trying not to cringe at the bawdy music that started back up, rolling out into the night.

“Where are we,” Cirilla asked, her voice thin and high and delicate in contrast to the bar music. 

Geralt had been prepared to tell her to wait here, but reconsidered. He helped the girl slide off Roach, made certain that she was secure on the ground -- indulgent, most certainly, but he couldn’t help it -- and then said to her, “I’m looking for someone.”

“Oh,” Cirilla said, and Geralt braced himself for more questions and protests or whatever else, but she said nothing.

She was like a little ghost, pale and quiet as she trailed after him, and it unnerved Geralt, as much as he could be unnerved, because she was so slight and so quiet, and because the last time he had someone trail after him, they had been anything but silent. 

Walking into the bar was like walking into a solid wall of sound and smells. The fug of sour alcohol and ripe body odour was a slap in the face, the singing was terrible and loud, making him wince. At his back, Cirilla grabbed the back plate of his armour, keeping close as Geralt wended his way through the loose crowd.

Despite however they had parted, and however long it had been, Geralt found himself himself curious as to where time and distance had taken Jaskier. All this to say he was brighter than Geralt remembered, his smile creasing the corners of his eyes and mouth, his actions animated. There was still that boyish aspect of him, too, the naked glee on his face as he lifted his lute, plucking out notes and singing, working the crowd up until they all joined along. Geralt didn’t know if Jaskier was any better or worse at song or songwriting, and he was annoyed at the people there for being loud enough to almost drown him out.

Jaskier didn’t see them at first, now angled towards a woman though he was singing more to her breasts than to her face, not that she seemed to mind. Then Jaskier turned away from her, continuing without breaking stride only to stumble at the sight of him. The note Jaskier had hit struck sour, hands freezing on the neck of his instrument as he stood, frozen, his eyes wide and mouth open. No one else seemed to notice, picking up where Jaskier left off, charging into another lewd and bawdy verse. 

Geralt tensed without really knowing why, muscles in his shoulders and down his arms bunching and then easing. He tilted his head then to one of the dark corners of the room, and it took a second before Jaskier reacted, glancing to the corner first before back to Geralt. He seemed to collect himself in that second, the shock and surprise wiped clean so that he just glared at him, distrust along with something haughty all over his face. After a moment more, he shifted, straightening where he stood and rolling his shoulders, and his hands adjusted themselves on his lute as if he were about to break out into song once more.

Five strides was all it took for Geralt to cross the room. The crowd parted easily for him, scattering aside like sheep, throwing up protests and grumbles; sharp _hey_ there and there, though no one made any real move to react. Sheer terror flashed across Jaskier’s face, and he scrambled back a couple of steps. It was not enough to get away, and the back of his knees hit a low seating bench. The lute hit the floor with a clatter in the same instance Geralt wrapped his hand around Jaskier’s upper arm.

“Get your hand off me, Witcher,” Jaskier said.

Geralt shoved him into the table at the corner and let go in the same motion. “Quit your hysterics.”

“Quit your hysterics,” Jaskier said, rubbing his arm. His voice was rougher than Geralt remembered, lower in tone. Or maybe he was just annoyed. “A year without a hair or hide, and he turns up and tells _me_ not to be hyst--”

The singing resumed, with or without Jaskier, in the main part of the room around the fire. Men and women slurring whatever songs came into their heads and cheering when someone fell or tripped or split a tank of beer on the stone floor. Jaskier looked offended, throwing glares to the crowd with his lip curled. Geralt should have dragged Jaskier outside, back where it smelled of grass and dirt and smoke and where it was silent and where Jaskier would look at him. 

But just as he realised the thought, Geralt was struck by a sudden foolishness. It was an unusual and unpleasant sensation, creeping up through his chest. His hands clenched into fists. He shouldn’t have--

“ _Geralt_.” The interruption was startling, and more was the frantic way Jaskier said his name.

Geralt looked down at him at the same time Jaskier looked up. His blue eyes were wide, surprised. He was always so expressive. 

“She’s… Who’s she? What--” Jaskier tripped over the seat in his hurry to stand, and he had to steady himself with a hand pressed to the table.

In all the fuss and the noise, in the rush of… whatever it was when he’d laid eyes on Jaskier again, Geralt had almost forgotten. He moved aside and carefully nudged Cirilla before him. 

He said, “My Child Surprise.”

“Your-- your Child Surprise?” Jaskier said. He couldn’t remove his wide gaze from the girl even though his face was tilted up, as if to meet Geralt’s eyes. “Your Child Surprise? This is-- you--”

Another round of cheering drew Jaskier’s attention from him and the girl, and he glanced to the crowd. Geralt had, at some point, rested his hand on Cirilla’s shoulder. He felt her breathing, and wondered if he should reassure her. Maybe say something about Jaskier, about how he was there when the Law of Surprise had been evoked in the first place. That it was more or less Jaskier’s fault. But then Jaskier turned back, and whatever Geralt was expecting from him, it wasn’t his naked rage. 

“You fool,” he said, voice going all dangerous and low. “What are you thinking, bringing her into a place like this?”

Before Geralt could react, Jaskier moved, darting forward to take Cirilla’s hands and then he ushered the girl around him, towards the tavern door.

“This way, this way,” he said, just under his breath. 

Geralt could only stare, caught somewhere angry and surprised and incredibly, incredibly annoyed. He already regretted coming here, finding him, and as if Jaskier heard the thought, he glanced back if only to glare. It was that that sparked Geralt into moving, crossing the room yet not making it to the door before it shut. 

Geralt yanked it open. “Bring her back.”

“Where would I be taking her?” Jaskier said, already facing him, clearly expecting this. “To another pub?”

Jaskier stood in the light of the open door before it slammed shut, leaving them in the dark. Jaskier had to squint, but Geralt saw him perfectly, as good as if he were seeing him in daylight.

“I would have taken her to--”

Geralt only realised he’d stopped when Jaskier snorted, rolled his eyes, and turned to the girl. He took her hands again, cradling them, as if she were something precious. She is, something in Geralt said, and he wished he could quash out that little voice though he knew whatever spoke was right. 

“-- _the girl in the woods will be with you always_ \--”

“What’s your name, darling?” Jaskier asked, his voice breaking Geralt from the memory.

Cirilla looked uncertainly between the two, before she steeled her slight shoulders and peered up to Jaskier. She was expecting a reaction. Geralt could read it on her face, right there in the tiny crease between her brows. 

“Cirilla,” she said. “My name is Cirilla.”

Geralt wanted to ask why Jaskier was asking. He was a bard, knowing the names of royalty was part of the trade. Jaskier knew the comings and goings of court life more than anyone. He expected him to say, ‘I know’, but Jaskier only smiled broadly. 

“I’m Jaskier.”

Relief melted through the girl. “Hello, Jaskier.”

+

Jaskier told Geralt of the inn that used to be only a short walk from the tavern.

“A decent place,” he said. “Nothing like--” he gestured back to the tavern long behind them. “Better furnishings. A bath in each room. I had a deal with the lady of the establishment, you know, half price lodgings if I provided entertainment for the night.”

Geralt grunted.

The night in the woods was thick. A faint tinge of smoke drifted through the trees, though it seemed to disappear, at times, beneath the stronger smells of the forest. Growing things, living things, dying things. It was silent, and the silence only gave more weight to the dark despite the sliver of moon in the sky. Jaskier rubbed his arms at times without being aware of the gesture. It was cool, not cold, but there was a bite in the air.

Geralt had his hand twisted in Roach’s reins, leading the horse along. Cirilla sat on top, slouching forward. Every so often she would jerk awake, drawing a startled breath that would make Roach exhale, as if the horse was surprised in a small way.

The inn had been sacked and burned to the ground, Jaskier told him, lost in the uncertainty of war. 

“We’ll have to pitch camp soon,” he continued, after a brief silence.

Geralt glanced to him, walking not beside him as he used to but on the other side of the horse, keeping Roach between them. He was looking up at Cirilla, and even with the weak glow of moonlight, Geralt could see the concern creasing his face. 

Setting up camp took short work, with Jaskier retrieving the gear stowed away on saddle bags while Geralt scanned the clearing and a short ways beyond the parameter for anything magic borne and potentially trouble. There was nothing, save for the faint stir of something that had been semi-present in the air ever since the battle. A small charge, diluted by distance, not enough to be concerned about yet still present enough to be noticed. Geralt imagined Yennefer before he could stop himself, picturing her as clear as if she stood in front of him, her black hair glossy in the dark, matching her eyes. 

Jaskier was easing Cirilla off Roach by the time Geralt made it back. They didn’t notice him, leaving him free to watch Jaskier humour her, telling her how much more Roach liked her, and how tired she must have been, and complaining how Geralt ever got it into his head to take her to a tavern. 

“It’s not much,” Jaskier continued, opening the small tent he’d set up and peering inside. Then, more to himself and somewhat doubtful, “Hopefully he’s washed it recently.”

+

“I thought you would know what to do,” Geralt said.

Cirilla had long fallen asleep, and Jaskier had stopped fretting about her. It was odd to see him do it. His attention had jumped between the tent and the fire before he finally relaxed enough to splay out the forest floor. That, at least, was familiar, Jaskier with one leg extended out and the other folded up.

“Just,” Jaskier started, with a patience that suggested anything but patience. “--how often do you think that people come to me with children? Because what I’m getting here is that you think it’s often. Which it isn’t. At all.”

“I wasn’t thinking that.”

Jaskier gestured to the tent, and Geralt had to stop himself from dragging a hand down his face.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said. 

But then what did he mean? That his first thought had been Yennefer, and destiny seemed to agree, the name being the first thing Cirilla asked of him. Except uncertainty had rushed up in almost the same moment, remembering Yennefer’s hellbent desire to have a child, seeing her face in his memory of her sweat drenched as she fought to keep a djinn in her belly. And he remembered his wish, and the depth of her betrayal when she’d discovered it. And her scorn when he’d accidentally revealed his Child Surprise, as if it were something he’d planned or desired. 

Roach shifted, drawing Geralt’s attention, and he saw Roach’s liquid brown eyes looking at him. How much easier things were when it was only the two of them.

Geralt sighed. “I meant that you were the only one I could trust with this.”

Jaskier drew in an audible breath, and Geralt could tell he struggled between delight and confusion, though confusion won out in the end.

He threw a bit of twig into the fire. “I haven’t seen you for a year. Last we spoke you wanted nothing to do with me, you made that clear. And now you’re here saying that _I’m_ the person to trust with Cirilla.”

“I’ve known you longer,” Geralt said. “I know you better.”

“You still dumped me, in spite of knowing me longer or better or whatever. You said that I was the fault of your luck. Don’t glare. You did,” Jaskier said. Then, in the same sharp tone, “Did you miss me?”

“What?”

“I said did you miss me. I didn’t miss you,” he continued. “Boorish, broody, brash.” 

Jaskier tossed another twig in the fire, frowning hard. The light flickered on his face, catching the angle of his nose and cheeks, the hook of his jaw. What he said, at least, explained some of the songs he’d heard. 

Behind them, Roach snuffled the ground, overturning fallen leaves for tender shoots of grass.

It felt like Geralt was seated at the table again, Cirilla opposite him with a mirrored confusion on her face. He could be annoyed or angry, or something like that, or he could tune it all out like he used to when Jaskier became too chatty for him, only caring to listen again when he started playing with the words and tune to another song. But the lute had been packed away, and Jaskier’s hands were restless in the silence. 

“It was quiet,” Geralt said, finally. 

Jaskier laughed, but there was nothing amused in the sound.

The fire crackled as one moment fed into the next. The smell of smoke came strong. Geralt knew that Jaskier was leaving it up to him to do something but, damn it all, he was a Witcher and there was only one thing he was made to do. He didn’t care, he didn’t feel anything, and when Jaskier moved to stand, dusting off his trousers, done with waiting, wanting sleep, Geralt thought to himself that this is where he would feel relieved, because the conversation was over now. 

Except it wasn’t relief, it was too desperate for that, and whatever it was made him say, “There were times when it was unpleasant. The silence. Travelling felt longest then.”

Jaskier waited, then asked, “Is that it.”

Geralt looked up at him. 

“You weren’t my first thought when I had her. You know who was. But she isn’t safe. I couldn’t trust her with the girl. Cirilla needs safety, Jaskier,” he said. “Someone without motives or magic. Someone who she can come to trust, too.” 

“What if I don’t want her,” Jaskier said.

“Then I’ll walk away.”

Jaskier held his eyes for a long, drawn moment before he broke away and laughed again, a thin ribbon of sound barely louder than the ambient noise of the forest around them. There were still misgivings on his face, and his gaze drifted to and from Geralt until he just turned it upward, as if imploring to whatever god looked down on them. He sighed loudly. Geralt waited, watching, looking at Jaskier as a whole. His clothing with its brocade, in the fine cornflower blue and gold Geralt knew and remembered. His dark hair and blue eyes. It wasn’t strange to see him there with him, standing there and exasperated in a way that made Geralt unexpectedly fond and equally uncertain. 

“I did miss you,” Geralt said, finally.

“I didn’t.” The words were sullen. 

“I wished I hadn’t said what I said.”

“Liar,” Jaskier said. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said. He held out a hand. “Come to me.”

Jaskier made a face somewhere between pained and wanting, but he moved to him, stopping to stand just before Geralt. He stood there a moment before falling to his knees, and Geralt had his hands to Jaskier’s face the second he was within reach, drawing him in. 

Kissing Jaskier came just as naturally as breathing. It always had. The kiss lingered, broke apart.

“I still didn’t miss you,” Jaskier whispered against his mouth. “I’m still angry.”

Geralt swiped his thumb against cheekbone. “I know.”

“And I’m still waiting for you to apologise.”

“I’m sorry.”

Jaskier drew back then, and he lifted a hand and trailed the tips of his fingers through the hair at Geralt’s shoulder. A barely there sensation that drew goosebumps. Geralt watched his face as he did it. 

“I’m going to sleep,” Jaskier said, before he moved to stand. 

Geralt let him slip from his hold despite the desire to hold on, and he watched as Jaskier laid out one of the heavy wool blankets Geralt had kept. He’d seen Jaskier pause over it earlier. He must have remembered purchasing it himself, telling Geralt about the necessity of comfort on long travels. 

“-- _she is your destiny_ \--”

He remembered Renfri as clearly as if she were in his arms. Her slight weight, the smell of metal and blood, and of leather and the forest. Geralt remembered the way she said it, and he thought of the girl inside the tent, the one in the woods who would be with him always. Destiny had spoken of her, but it had mentioned nothing of Jaskier, who had always been within reach the second he’d stepped into his life. 

“Go to sleep, Geralt,” Jaskier said then, sounding disgruntled. “I can hear you brooding from here.”

Geralt moved, shifting to lay down, hands tucked behind his head. He would have to put out the fire before he slept, if he slept, and maybe he would tonight. He stared up at the sky overhead, streaked with smoke and cloud. There was a vague memory of someone telling him that things would be better in the morning, and while Geralt had lived through enough mornings to know such things weren’t certainties, there was a tentative trust in the coming dawn. So he closed his eyes, and slept.


End file.
